


Troika

by phoenixqueen



Series: The Past Follows [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Gen, Introspection, Memories, Natasha/Comic Canon Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 11:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixqueen/pseuds/phoenixqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is Russian, and so much more. Hints of Clintasha/BlackHawk if you squint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Troika

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: This one-shot was inspired first by a list of 100 word prompts, and this was number 76: Who. The second inspiration was the song Troika by the amazing group Blackmore’s Night, from their newest album “Dancer and the Moon”. I’ll include the lyrics at the bottom, but this is not a songfic. Written for a one-shot challenge issued at The Beta Branch.
> 
> Also, the word: тройка - a Russian word meaning "triplet" or "trio" and referring (in this case) to a traditional method of harness driving with three horses harnessed side by side where the middle horse trots and the outside horses canter, with the two outside horses running on opposite leads.

She had never denied what she was to anyone. However, what she was – well that was a complicated matter.   
  
She was a woman.   
  
She was a spy.   
  
She was an assassin.   
  
She was a SHIELD agent.   
  
She was a partner.   
  
She was a friend.   
  
She was an Avenger.  
  
But all of those things were just facets of who she, Natasha Romanoff, was. Each of those facets added together to create a larger picture. She had embraced each facet as part of her very essence. If one of those parts were missing, she wouldn’t be Natasha Romanoff.  
  
There were other, minor facets, of course. It was impossible to list every facet of one’s being. But there was one major facet that she rarely spoke of, or mentioned to anyone, mostly because it wasn’t necessary. People could tell just by her reputation and her very, very slight accent. Years of practice had trained most of her accent away, unless she spoke in her native tongue, when she embraced it openly.  
  
She was Russian.  
  
And sometimes, that was the part of her that she reflected on the most. If she had not been Russian, she would not have become most of those other things. She would not have been taken and trained by the Red Room to become a spy and assassin. She would have never met Clint Barton and broken away from the Program to become a SHIELD agent. She would never have had Clint there to teach her about trust and friendship, and she certainly would never have become an Avenger.  
  
She was not sentimental. Those kinds of emotions had been trained out of her long ago. Just feeling the emotions of trust, friendship, and caring had taken a long time for her to learn. Feeling anything deeper, anything that could be considered personal, was not only difficult for her, but it was something that she only did when she was alone.  
  
But today, she was feeling sentimental. She didn’t even know what had inspired it. She had been in the common area of the Tower, listening to Stark and Clint trading barbs with each other and Steve, when a pang of nostalgia hit her so hard that she actually had to suppress the urge to gasp. Fortunately, no one noticed, so engrossed were they in watching and/or participating in the battle of wits raging next to them. She remained sitting for a few minutes to ensure that all attention was off of her, before she slipped soundlessly from her seat and moved down the hallway towards her own room.  
  
As she closed the door behind herself, she listened for any sign that Clint or Steve had noticed her departure and followed her. But from down the hall she could still hear their voices, so ever so quietly she locked the door behind her. This was something that needed privacy. As close as she was to Clint and as much as he thought he knew about her – which was a hell of a lot, actually. She’d confessed a great deal to him early in their partnership with SHIELD, in a deliberate attempt to shock and disgust him with what she had done. He’d listened without flinching or reacting in anyway, and then simply told her his own story. That had been the beginning of the trust between them.  
  
But there was still a part of her story that she’d kept back from him all these years. It was one of those precious secrets that you didn’t hand out to just anyone. As far as she knew, she was the only one still living who knew about it. Oh, there was a chance that Fury or Coulson knew about it from when they had investigated her prior to sending Clint to kill her, but she doubted it.  
  
Reaching into the back of her closet, she pulled out a metal lockbox. Clint had asked her once what she kept in it, and she’d told him it was just personal papers – her copies of things that SHIELD kept on file. He’d only nodded and never asked again. In a way, her answer was true. She  _did_ keep personal papers in the box, but there were a few other items in the box that she _hadn’t_ mentioned.  
  
Carrying the box over to the bed, she sat down and dialed the code that would open it. Flipping the lid back, she lifted out the personal papers and set them aside. Underneath the files were the  _other_ items.  
  
First were several old photos. The topmost one was a black and white photo taken in front of the Seven Sisters. In the photo, a young girl who appeared perhaps eighteen - but in reality was several years younger - was wearing a fluffy white wedding dress. The man standing next to her was dressed in a military uniform, his medals displayed proudly. Both of them had bright smiles on their faces and gold rings prominently displayed on their right hands.  
  
Natasha traced the man’s face with a perfectly manicured nail, before she laid the photo down and picked up the next one. This one was a more formal photo of the man in his uniform. He was being presented with an award by the Premier, Nikita Khrushchev. Again, she set the photo aside and reached for another. One by one, she sorted through the photos, taking a moment to reflect on each one. A few were snapshots of famous Russian landmarks, or places in the Russian tundra that held special meaning for her – not that there were many of those.  
  
The final photo in the stack was the only framed one of the lot. The frame was old, and inexpensive. The glass was cracked in one corner, and the photo had faded over the last few years, but the image was still clear. Natasha sucked her breath in sharply for a second time as she studied the photo. The event was still prominent in her mind, even fifteen years later.  
  
 _It was a cold winter’s night, and he had taken her from their cozy home in Moscow and led her out of the city to a small farm. Despite her constant questions about where they were going, he insisted it was a surprise. Once they reached the farm, the surprise had become evident. A тройка was sitting outside the farm gate, with three handsome grey Orlov Trotters harnessed to it in the traditional arrangement. The seats had been piled high with thick, soft blankets, and the cushions were comfortable and equally soft._  
  
 _He had bundled her up in the blankets after they had climbed aboard, pulling her close and tucking her under his arms before slapping the reins across the backs of the horses and setting them off on a wild run through the farmlands outside Moscow. His driving had been superb, and the speed of the three animals had been enough to take her breath away._  
  
 _He asked the farm owners to take the photo for them with his own camera after they returned from their trip. Her cheeks had been red from the crisp winter air, her bright red hair windblown and falling around her face, and her eyes sparkling with joy at the experience they had just lived through together._  
  
That night had been one of the last happy memories that she had, and even then it had been shadowed by the knowledge that she wasn’t who he thought she was – that she had an ulterior motive that he wouldn’t learn about until it was far too late. It was only the fact that the others had become too impatient with her that had saved her from having to reveal the truth to him – not that the outcome mattered. It was the same outcome regardless of who had actually done the deed.  
  
Just underneath the framed photo was a small, square box with a hinged lid, covered in black velvet. Slowly, she picked it up and opened it, revealing the two rings that sat nestled inside. Both were plain, simple gold bands – one thin and delicate, and another broader band. She shuffled back through the pictures until she found the wedding photo. Lifting it back out of the stack, she glanced at it again. The two rings in the box she held were identical to the rings in the photo. Natasha let her fingers drift over the thin gold band for a moment, before she lifted it out and placed it on the ring finger of her right hand. It still fit perfectly, which was surprising since it had been over a decade since she had last worn it. After another moment, she slipped the ring off and returned it to the velvet box.  
  
 _“Agent Romanoff, are you all right?”_  Jarvis’ tone was gentle and curious, but there was a hint of concern underlying it.  
  
“I’m fine, Jarvis,” Natasha whispered. “Thank you.”  
  
 _“Would you like me to summon Agent Barton?”_  
  
“No.” Eventually, she knew, she would have to tell Clint about all of this, but she wasn’t ready yet. This was still her secret, her burden, her guilt to bear. She had done a remarkable job of trying to make up for all of the red in her ledger, according to Clint and Phil, but this was one red stain that she could never wipe out – and in a way, she didn’t want to.  
  
 _I’m so sorry, Alexei…you didn’t deserve what happened to you._  
  
With a resigned sigh, she began to put the photos and rings back in the box, but she hesitated with the framed photo. She almost couldn’t believe that the young woman in the photo was her. It had been a different time in her life, but it had been one that had helped to turn her into the person she was. If it wasn’t for the things that she had learned from and with Alexei, she might not have been as willing to defect from the Program and go solo. If that hadn’t happened, Clint might have taken her out without a second thought, and she would be dead, and not sitting here with the chance to try to make up for the things that she had done.  
  
In many ways, Clint had become the center of her world. He had given her the second chance that she had desperately needed, taught her to trust and demonstrated the concept of loyalty to someone rather than to a country or a group. Because of him, she had been able to transfer her loyalty to SHIELD, to him, and now, to the Avengers.  
  
She was an Avenger.  
  
That thought stopped her for a moment. The word avenge…it had so many nuances of meaning, from the oldest form where it essentially meant the same thing as revenge, to little things like vindicate, claim a point of honor…and of course, the more common meaning, to inflict retribution for the sake of justice.  
It wasn’t just the world as a whole that she and her team fought to Avenge and protect. It was the individuals who had led them to this point in their lives – the people who had had subtle or not so subtle influences on them.  
  
For Steve, it was probably his friend Bucky, his commanding officer during the war, his former almost-girlfriend, and who knew who else.  
  
For Tony – his parents, Pepper, his friend Colonel Rhodes.  
  
Thor – definitely Loki. She understood the bond between the two, at least on Thor’s side. She had never experienced it, but her training had given her a means to understand it, even when others didn’t. In a way, she felt the same regarding some of the other girls that the Program had turned into their own assassins. They were not  _close_ , but they had a bond of shared experiences.  
  
In Bruce’s case, it was more about avenging himself. About proving to himself that the Hulk could be used as a force for good, and that he deserved the same level of respect and compassion as everyone else in the world, regardless of the things that he had done in the past.  
  
And for Clint…well, Clint had a lifetime or more of reasons and people that had made him who he was. Some were mostly likely similar to her personal experiences, but many were vastly different.  
  
She glanced back at the photo. Clint was the center of her world now, but even he wouldn’t have been able to break through to her if it wasn’t for another man who had touched her so long ago, given her freedoms and understandings that she had never possessed before she met him.  
  
The years hadn’t been kind to her, and she couldn’t help but wonder how her life would have been different if it wasn’t for Alexei.  
  
Setting the framed photo aside, she put the rest of the papers back in the lockbox and closed it, spinning the dials to lock it once again. She returned the box to the back of her closet and then walked back over to the bed and picked up the photo. She still wasn’t ready to tell Clint about it, but maybe…  
  
She walked over to the nightstand beside her bed and slipped the photo into the drawer where she kept one of her backup pistols and several knives. She might not be quite at the point where she could openly acknowledge his influence on her life, but she could get to that point with a little more time. And when she felt ready to acknowledge it, she would tell Clint. Once Clint knew, it would be easier to admit it to the others.  
  
In the meantime, she would keep Alexei where he had always been – in her heart, in her personal place, and when the Avengers were deployed, she would go into the battle to avenge him and his senseless fate.  
  
She was a woman.   
  
She was a spy.   
  
She was an assassin.   
  
She was a SHIELD agent.   
  
She was a partner.   
  
She was a friend.   
  
She was an Avenger.  
  
She was Russian.  
  
She touched the photo one last time before she slid the drawer closed. She was many facets that when put together created a person. All of the facets were important, but there was one that until now she had only been able to ever admit to herself.  
  
She was a widow.

**Author's Note:**

> The song which inspired this story:
> 
> Troika by Blackmore’s Night
> 
> There’s a place in my heart  
> The shadows call their home  
> Cold as the winds through Siberia  
> Where the snow lies so deep  
> You can’t even see the sun  
> Run, my Troika, run  
> Run, my Troika, run
> 
> Let the horses run free  
> So dark against the white  
> Over the field till they’re out of sight  
> And I am swept away  
> The journey has just begun  
> Run, my Troika, run
> 
> Oh, my mother Russia  
> Land of fairytales  
> Captured like the wind  
> In her silken sails
> 
> And the time rushes by  
> A thief in the night  
> Stealing my memory  
> Fading out the light  
> But I cannot forget where it is  
> That I come from  
> Run, my Troika, run  
> Run, my Troika, run
> 
> Oh, my mother Russia  
> Land of fairytales  
> Captured like the wind  
> In her silken sails
> 
> I can still see your face  
> The years have been kind  
> Dust on the pictures  
> Clouding up my mind  
> Remember me now  
> Not for what I may become  
> Run, my Troika, run
> 
> There’s a place in my heart  
> The shadows call their home  
> Cold as the winds through Siberia  
> Where the snow lies so deep  
> You can’t even see the sun  
> Run, my Troika, run  
> Run, my Troika, run
> 
> Run, my Troika, run


End file.
